Of Note In 2020: HIp Hop, RnB, and Reggae

As is typical for these genres, the main Of Note playlist is dominated by singles, many of which I hope bear LP-sized fruit later in the year, like those from Isaiah Rashad and (especially) Frank Ocean. For now, I want to draw your attention to an EP and two albums that have really grabbed me. Tracks can be found in the 40 For 2020 playlist, alongside those from recent posts on Classical and Electronic releases.



Charlotte Dos Santos - Harvest Time Where her divine 2017 album Cleo showcased her limber, multi-octave voice in a variety of styles, including jazz, cha-cha, and electronic R&B, the five songs here solidify what might be called the "Dos Santos" style, where all those genres melt together in one dreamy melange. Part of her skill set is also conceiving of complex vocal arrangements, which she then executes through flawless multi-tracking. There's an insular, self-sufficient feeling to Dos Santos's music, only making it seem more of a privilege to be invited into her world.

Pop Smoke - Meet The Woo 2 (Deluxe) Even knowing this once-emerging rapper is dead, killed in a home invasion in February, doesn't make it any less convincing when he says, "I said, I feel invincible" on the opening cut to his second mixtape. That's a tribute to his gravitas, which must be the mark of an old soul as he was only 20 when he died. According to several writers at Complex, he's also still the King Of New York, which is a credit to his talent and a commentary on the state of hip hop in its foundational city. But he's not wearing a crown by default. Working within the confines of Brooklyn Drill, which is what came of trap when it pinged to London and then ponged to Chicago before rolling into BK, he brings an immediately arresting authority to his flow, even when he spitting some filthy bars. But it's that weight and menace that makes you hang on every syllable, along with the way he weaves his word through the spacious beats. Apparently there's an official debut album in the can. Until we hear that, Meet The Woo 2 will serve as both a legacy of what he accomplished and a promise of how much more he had to offer.

Jay Electronica - A Written Testimony As you may or may not know (and probably care even less) I don't think much of Jay Z, although when he's on a Kanye West record (or collaborating as on Watch The Throne) he brings the heat. So the fact that he's on eight of ten tracks here and I still love it is as much as I do is a tribute to how awesome this album is. Jay Electronica is a font of creativity, whether sampling Fripp & Eno on Ezekiel's Wheel, one of six songs he produced, or rhyming with polished density as on the first verse of The Neverending Story: "Have you ever heard the tale of/The noblest of gentlemen who rose up from squalor?/Tall, dark, and decked out in customary regalia/Smellin' like paraphernalia/Hailin' from the home of Mahalia." Islam is woven throughout but it doesn't rub this atheist the wrong way, just adding an air of mystique and depth. Hopefully we don't have to wait 10 years for his next album, but A Written Testimony will likely have significant staying power.

Dig in to everything I'm tracking in these genres with the Of Note In 2020 (Hip Hop, R&B, and Reggae) playlist - and let me know what I'm missing.



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1983: Dancing About Architecture

Note: I went to SUNY Purchase and there came a time when my group of friends decided that an arts school should have an arts magazine, so we created MOA: Magazine of the Arts. My role was as an editor and music critic and I started a column called Dancing About Architecture. This is one of those columns, reproduced here exactly as it was published 36 years ago.

Radio is in a pretty bad state. It's conformist, commercially dependent, and, with few exceptions, blatantly racist.

Among offenders there are degrees: worst is WLIR-FM (92.7), ignoring all but the most homogenized black music. Contemporary Hits Radio (CHR) stations are little better, giving more airplay to black music, but only if it's already making a lot of money. The only stations with integrity are the "Urban" stations (WKTU, WBLS, WRKS, all FM, 92.0, 107.5, and 98.7, respectively), who set their own criteria for what they play, independent of sales.

I'll start with WLIR, the supposed "New Music Station." WLIR's programming policy translates: White/English - YES, Black/American - NO. WLIR justifies its "new" title by playing songs that are a hit in England, while ignoring new American music, especially if it's black. When questioned about the intimated racism of their programming, WLIR directors responded: "We play what fits our format - we play music that's good." One could argue that WLIR is "making a statement" by not giving airplay to "Thriller," but if the issue is quality, why does the station keep "Undercover," the Stones latest, on the air? Evidently, in the language of WLIR, "good" means "not black."

The same thinking informs the 24-hour cable music television channel, MTV. When an MTV executive was asked why his channel did not play more black videos, he replied, "We play rock'n'roll." One might ask then, what is R'n'R? Is it, as the people at WLIR and MTV would have us believe, a rootless dance music played by white people, mainly on synthesizers, exclusive of black performers?

The latest alternative - CHR - offers a definition-by-no-definition: they play anything that is a hit. However their programming policy affect the consistency of their audience (if it has any consistency), CHR stations do at least participate in breaking down racial barriers. For instance, during the time CHR stations were playing Culture Club's "Do You Really Want To Hurt Me" and Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing," WLIR played only Culture Club and wouldn't touch the latter. Of course, CHR's motives in this case were purely profit-oriented, a fact which becomes less relevant when one's concern is getting as large an audience as possible to accept a variety of music. What is relevant is that these stations are very popular. In fact, Z-100 was for several months early this year the Number One station the New York listening area.

The predictable irony is that CHR stations and WLIR suffer from the same problem: across-the-board mediocrity. The fact that the "new music" WLIR plays is on the charts is not a triumph for new music, but rather, a defeat for The Music. There's nothing "new" about Duran Duran that wasn't new about Herman's Hermits. What WLIR has done, simply, is to fool the public into thinking that the same old thing is new - and has done so without taking any risk. There will always be pop, and it will always have its listeners - many, many listeners.

Not every "New Music" station in the past has had such narrow programming. A few years back, WPIX-FM, 101.9 (now playing love songs, nothing but love songs), was one New Music station that dared quite a bit. They played the Specials before they signed with the Chrysalis label and even played the B-52's "Rock Lobster" from a demo tape. WPIX also contributed to the success of lesser known bands like XTC, whose album "Drums and Wires," as a result of continual airplay on WPIX, resulted in that band's largest following ever. The temptation is to conclude that we have entered into a period of musical mediocrity, an error that amounts to "blaming the victim." There is lots of good music now; for example XTC's new album "Mummer," which receives no airplay. The radio stations are at fault.



There are a few innovators, the "Urban Stations" - WKTU, WBLS and WRKS - who play anything, as long as it fits their criteria of quality. The difference between these stations and CHR is that whereas CHR plays what is a hit, Urban stations are a major force in making the hits. This is where the innovations are happening, in so-called "Black Music." As a musician, I find most of the things that catch my ear are on 12" dance singles, like the great, crunchy synthesizer sound in "You've Gotta Believe" by "Love Bug" Starski, or the huge drum sound in Shannon's "Let The Music Play." Not to mention Scratching (rubbing the needle on the record to create literally a scratching sound), which is something really new - using the medium to renew itself, like making a collage out of the Mona Lisa. This is what distinguishes Urban stations from all the others: they act on the music itself - making new mixes, scratches, etc. Some of the D.J.-made hits are so good that they have become airplay hits and are eventually released as records themselves.



What emerges from all this is an essential difference in black and white attitudes towards music. To overgeneralize: blacks view music more as a medium while whites treat it primarily as a commodity. Of course, this hasn't stopped white musicians from borrowing heavily (I'm being kind) from black artists - How many people talked to Bo Diddley before using his beat? - but when it comes to repaying the debt, they can be remarkably selfish. Recently Sugarhill Records approached 99 Records for use of a Liquid Liquid bassline and were refused. When Sugarhill asked if it was possible to buy a percentage of the rights, 99 said flat out "No. We own 100% of the song and we will continue to own 100%." Sugarhill used the bassline anyway (promising royalties to 99) and created a better song - "White Lines,"  by Grandmaster and Melle Mel. White musicians should learn to give a little with all that take - let's face it, they didn't invent the funk.



Despite all this, there is hope. By the sheer quality of the music, Urban Stations are managing to convince other stations what's good. Recently, WLIR picked up "White Lines," making it the first black record to receive steady airplay on that station. Although radio's basic premise is still to reach as large an audience as possible, I believe better radio could be a reality; radio that's less racist and more confident, that can introduce to the American public some really new music. A change like this could only be accompanied by other, bigger changes. The supposedly revived music industry would have to start signing and promoting young, fresh artists, and even, perhaps, using some good, old-fashioned power politics (such as CBS allegedly used to get Michael Jackson's videos on MTV) to get their music played on commercial stations. Musicians would also have to cooperate and try, on both sides, to bridge the still-yawning racial gap. I don't know if this will happen in my lifetime, but I am sure, as an interested party and working musician, that it is up to us to lay the foundations for radio's hopefully brighter future.

(Jeremy Shatan, a junior at the State University of New York at Purchase, plays bass for Susanna and the Elders.)

Susanna and the Elders
(l-r: Andrew Berenyi (Guitar), Joe Leonard (Drums), Verushka (Vocals), Jeremy Shatan (Bass)

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Part Two: The Early Years Of Record Buying

Record Roundup: Hip Hop Hors d’Oeuvres

It’s just past the first quarter of 2018 and it feels like hip hop is in a fragmented place, with tons of variety but a lack of centralized power. It makes perfect sense that one of the most important albums in the genre this year, namely Black Panther: The Album, overseen by the mighty Kendrick Lamar, is a various-artists collection. But that just means that our table is set with a kaleidoscopic array of tasty bites. Here are some others that have me going back for seconds. 

Invasion Of Privacy - Cardi B. I have no problem admitting I was wrong when I called Cardi B. a flash in the pan. I thought the phenomenon of Bodak Yellow would lead to an over-wrought, overlong mess, a naked attempt for streaming dominance with no concern for musical quality (it’s happened before, right Fetty?). Instead what we have here is a concise, heat-seeking album that mostly shows her surprising versatility while not straying too far from her strengths. The opening cut, Get Up 10 is a perfect origin story with a brittle beat that’s supremely catchy. Next, she holds her own with Migos on Drip, injecting some welcome color into their trademark sound. Be Careful is another highlight, marrying her tough rhymes to a slinky groove that finds her comfortable enough to sing a little. 

Chance The Rapper threatens to take over Best Life with his sheer skill and exuberance but Cardi claws back her territory. Whether or not they were actually in the studio together, they make a great team, with his natural sunniness contrasting with her biting flow. I Like It adds some trap to familiar boogaloo for a killer party cut with a great guest spot from Bad Bunny, rapping in Spanish. This is the only explicit, if glancing, nod to part of her heritage (her father is Dominican, her mother is from Trinidad) but her inflections will be familiar to anyone who as spent time in one of NYC’s diverse neighborhoods. 

Further collaborations with Kehlani, YG and SZA could have led to an overload but they all feel in support of her rather than an attempt at propping up a limited talent. Besides the fact that Money Bag is a retread, my only real complaint about this impressive debut is including Bodak Yellow and Bartier Cardi, both old songs with multi-millions of streams, which smacks of either laziness or music-biz chicanery. It interrupts the listening experience to have these overly familiar singles in the track list. Take’em out and you still have a 40 minute album that makes this outsized personality the unlikely queen of hip hop. Well done. 

Fuerza Arara - Telmary If Cardi B. has a true affinity for Hispanic rap, she should invite this Cuban legend on her next project. Telmary Diaz has been pursuing her vision of Latin hip hop since the 90’s and shows no sign of losing her flair or intensity on this album. The grooves, drawing on a wealth of Afro-Caribbean and Yoruban flavors, are rich and beautifully produced, with the tuba-driven Como se Pone la Habana and the reggaefied Ibeyis being standouts. But really, the only knock on Fuerza Arara’ is that, at just over 30 minutes, it’s way too short. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s a perfect place to start, however, and I envy you the journey through her past. Read up on some other exciting things happening in Cuban hip hip in this in-depth article from Topic.

Fever - Black Milk This Detroit-based producer and rapper, born Curtis Eugene Cross, has also been honing his craft for a while, gaining most of his reputation as a top-flight J Dilla disciple behind the boards. Through his own albums and many collaborations he’s continued to develop his rapping to the point where he’s now a true double-threat. Besides his conversational flow one thing that distinguishes him is his focus on storytelling and descriptions of an emotional landscape with a refreshing lack of braggadocio. Standout track Laugh Now, Cry Later (an inversion of Grace Jones’ advice) is a great place to start, but there’s not a bad track here. “They told me keep it pure, caught up in the allure, but, see, that’s not what I was looking for, wasn’t sure, I wanted more,” Black Milk raps on True Lies and throughout Fever he demonstrates the allure of keeping it pure. Catch it -and check him out live in the studio at New Sounds. 

The Brown Tape - Ghostface Killah & Apollo Brown One of the minor tragedies of our sensationalist moment is that Martin Shkreli’s adventure with that million-dollar Wu-Tang Clan album got way more attention than Ghostface’s last album. Sour Soul, from 2015, was an album length collaboration with Toronto-based jazz insurrectionaries Bad Bad Not Good - and it sounded like a million bucks, landing on my Top 20 for that year. Now that Shkreli is behind bars I hope people don’t make the same mistake and miss out on this latest from the greatest living Wu Tang rapper. The album is named after producer Brown, another luminary straight outta Michigan, like Black Milk, but might also refer to the thick, crackle-infused beats he’s cooked up here. It’s almost as if Ghostface challenged him to use the most unplayable vinyl in his crates to build the tracks. However it went down, it sounds fantastic. 

The Killah himself is in fine form, whether spitting furiously on Blood On The Cobblestones or waxing autobiographical on Rise Of The Ghostface Killah, which features his Clan brother RZA, who was probably looking greedily at Brown’s vinyl while recording his bars. Like Sour Soul, The Brown Tape is a short, sharp and shocking reminder of the strengths of one of the most venerable rappers still in the game, as well as a calling card for Brown’s grimy production skills. Don’t let pharma-bro Shkreli hog the spotlight again. 

Golden Chariots - Joey Gallo, Cole Hicks and J Clyde Full disclosure: Producer J Clyde is one of my fellow writers for Off Your Radar, the weekly newsletter covering forgotten or overlooked albums. But it's through that relationship that I've come to admire his deep musical knowledge, and not just about hip hop, but all things sonic. While I've checked out and enjoyed some of his own stuff in the past, this collaboration with two Virginia-based rappers has a new sense of assurance and command. His use of samples is always on point and the rhythms are funky and unpretentious. Gallo has the smooth flow of a veteran and Cole (short for Nicole) contrasts nicely whether rapping or singing. This EP is a great introduction to three talents - hope to hear more soon. 

Catch up with everything I’m tracking in this realm with this playlist: Of Note In 2018 (Hip Hop, R&B, and Reggae). What morsels am I missing?

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Dylan-Lamar-Misty: An American Trilogy

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Moment Of Palm

There was a funny moment before Palm started their set at Market Hotel last week. They were supposed to go on at 10:30, but things were running a little late as they had to change over the stage from the previous band. The packed house watched and waited respectfully, but in a high-key of anticipation, until finally it seemed as if all systems were go. Eve Alpert and Kasra Kurt, who both sing and play guitar, had tuned their instruments and set up some compact electronics. Drummer Hugo Stanley had arranged his kit, including an electronic drum pad, to his liking, and bassist Gerasimos Livitsanos had his Hofner "Beatle" bass ready. I literally inhaled, ready for the explosion of sound, when, without any kind of visible communication between them, the band walked off the stage, back through the audience, to parts unknown. "Where'd they go?" I said to the woman next to me, but she was equally baffled.

Somehow, that little moment exemplified what a tight unit and how secure in themselves as a band Palm is now, qualities that were only more on display when they returned a few minutes later and launched into Pearly, the lead track from Rock Island, their excellent new album. That song has been around a while so a roar went up when Stanley triggered the loop that starts the song and every stop-start-stop was echoed in the dancing of the throng, me included. While a recent performance on Soundcheck was a little stiff, there was no hesitation about getting into to the groove onstage. In fact, they were even more supple in concert than on the album, while still remaining furiously locked in. Part of the experience was the sound, of course, with Livitsanos's bass rich and thick, burbling along with each stroke of his thumb, and Stanley's bass drum punching me in the chest.

Even though there's a lot of tricky rhythms and mind-boggling repetitions, everything felt effortless throughout the show. That was partly due to Stanley’s facility, delivering the drum parts with a feeling of planned unpredictability, like a cross between Tony Williams and a classical percussionist. The lightness of the songs themselves also seemed to buoy the band, and by extension the audience, along on wave after wave of bright, shiny guitars and electronics, with sugary vocals by Alpert or Kurt as the icing on top. While Palm hasn't quite reached the hypnotic heights of Stereolab, who knew a thing or two about repetition, or the polyrhythmic proficiency of Talking Heads for that matter, I did find myself having a similar ecstatic response to Palm, closing my eyes and losing myself in the music. 

“This is our biggest show,” Alpert told us during her humble words of thanks near the end of the night, confirming my observation that Palm is having their moment. Between this concert and Rock Island (not to mention last year’s Shadow Expert EP, also great) I'm amazed at how far Palm have come from being a Slint-obsessed curiosity just a few years ago to being an essential band, even reinventing the two-guitars-bass-drums template for our era. Let their moment become yours; their month-long American tour starts on February 16th and then it’s on to Europe. 

Sammus

The concert was presented by Ad Hoc, and the overall lineup seemed a little, well, ad hoc. Rapper and producer (and PhD student) Sammus opened the show and her lush beats, smart rhymes and winning personality made her ideal to warm up the room, even if there was no obvious crossover to Palm’s universe. She sang a little, shaded into spoken word at times and rapped with flexibility and nuance, although her voice was a little hoarse from a cold. I bet she made a few new fans, who will hopefully track down her fine 2016 album, Pieces In Space. 

Melkbelly, an arty punk-metal band from Chicago held down the middle spot, employing their two guitars, bass and drums in a far more conventional manner than Palm, often appearing to employ heaviness for its own sake. Sometimes the grinding guitars and shrieking vocals were a little amusing to me, but the band's complete lack of irony seemed to be reflected in the crowd, who cheered enthusiastically. No doubt, Melkbelly are good at what they do, but none of it had the inevitability of greatness. Also, Ad Hoc broke a cardinal concert rule by having an opening act louder than the headliner. Thank god for my Ear Peace ear plugs (unpaid endorsement!), which allowed me to retain enough stereocilia to fully enjoy all the details of Palm’s set. 

Melkbelly

I also dug the music between sets, which was an on-point mix of post-punk funk and dance punk, keeping the crowd happily moving even when Palm went AWOL for a few minutes. The overall vibe of Market Hotel was good, too, gritty and welcoming, with the almost silent theater of the passing trains adding to the urban flair. There was a free beer tasting, which made some people happy since there was no alcohol for sale. That lack might have also helped the bands, as the merch table was very busy after the show. I waited my turn and got the t-shirt AND the vinyl. It was that kind of concert and I expect more transcendent moments from Palm in the future. 

P.S. Aren't you glad I didn't call this "Palm Before The Storm"?

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Dylan-Lamar-Misty: An American Trilogy

There's already been enough ink spilled - both pro and con - about the three albums discussed below for even a casual observer to recognize that they are among the most notable of the year. So, rather than review them all in a conventional fashion, I thought it might be more interesting to go a bit more meta in my analysis. 

PAST: Bob Dylan - Triplicate When last we met Bob Dylan, Nobel Prize-winning songwriter, he was inhabiting the role of the night watchman on the Titanic and singing bloody tales on the brave and beautiful Tempest, his last album of originals. In the five years since, he has embarked on a quixotic and intermittently rewarding journey through the heart of Tin Pan Alley and the Great American Songbook. When Shadows In The Night, the first of these albums, came out in 2015, Dylan gave interviews where he talked about how these were "uncover" versions, which he hoped would reveal the bones of these great songs free of obfuscating ornamentation. Even so, part of me wondered if "Dylan sings Sinatra" was to the side of his overall project, a diversion. 

But I also remembered Dylan writing in Chronicles: Volume One about how he had studied Brecht-Weill's Pirate Jenny, breaking it down and examining its mechanics in great detail as a way to progress in his own songwriting. So maybe Shadows and its follow up, Fallen Angels, were part of the same process, like when he presaged the purple patch that started with Time Out Of Mind with two albums of folk and blues covers (both remarkable albums, and ripe for rediscovery). This seemed to jibe with rumors I heard of new songs being recorded, including a duet with Mavis Staples they put together when they were on the road together. 

But then Triplicate dropped, 30 new cover songs, arranged in thematic groups only Dylan really understood. Like the other albums, it is a beautifully recorded and performed mixed bag, with the uptempo, horn-driven tunes the most effective to these ears. The packaging of the deluxe edition resembles the "record albums" I found in my grandmother's collection (and that Dylan likely grew up with), making an even more explicit nod to the past. 

Then it hit me: his Bobness isn't studying up for new songs (although those may be coming), he is immersing himself in yesteryear. Why? Because he saw it all coming. When Tempest came out, some people were baffled by the sanguinary escapades described in many of the songs, whether in the exploits of the Early Roman Kings, the residents of Scarlet Town, or the "brother killing brother" on the Titanic in the title track. What was all that bloodletting about? It only took five years for the other shoe to drop: "American carnage." Remember, Dylan was on the fiery front lines of the Civil Rights movement, he saw hatred directed at him - probably even getting called a "n****r lover" - he knew the reaction to the Obama presidency was going to be harsh. He tried to tell us on Tempest: there will be blood. This is America, born in British blood, baptized in Southern blood, confirmed in black blood...there gets to be a need for another vein to open. 

After I had lived with Triplicate for a week or so, all this hit me like a ton of bricks: Get. The. Message. I mean, could it get any more obvious? He tried to warn us, and now that his prediction is splashed across the headlines and our Twitter feeds - with the metaphorical blood of the "forgotten Americans" being drained by White House policies on a daily basis, and the literal blood of black men on the streets - he's out. And I'll be goddamned if he hasn't earned every right to be another septuagenarian finding comfort in the songs of old. But he's not time traveling because he wants to return to the past, rather he perhaps seeks to reintroduce us to the humane values from which Tin Pan Alley often took its lifeblood. The liner notes by Tom Piazza touch on this: "The angle of light is mostly autumnal; the songs address longing for something gone, or just out of reach, a past that can't be retrieved."

As Dylan sings in Why Was I Born, the Jerome Kern song that concludes Triplicate:

Why was I born
Why am I livin'
What do I get
What am I givin'

That these questions still matter to Dylan, and I don't think he does anything lightly, is deeply moving. Do they matter to you?

PRESENT: Kendrick Lamar - DAMN. "What happens on earth, stays on earth," is one refrain that pops up repeatedly on the follow-up to the staggering triumph of To Pimp A Butterfly. That's a literally grounded statement, as is the moment in BLOOD,  the introductory skit, when Lamar gets shot by a blind woman who likely represents American justice, just America, or both. The album that follows finds Lamar wrestling with our present moment in kaleidoscopic detail, constantly questioning how he and we got HERE and wondering what the next step is. 

While each song stands on its own, there is also a loose concept that is made clearer by the end when the album swallows its own tail with what may be the whole album run backwards at increasing speed, ending the album where it began: "So, I was taking a walk one day..." There are also a number of theories about listening to DAMN. in reverse order, traveling from Kendrick's origins in DUCKWORTH., the last song, to his death in BLOOD. Like the continuing "conversation" around police shootings and general issues of imbalance of power, the album is a circular argument.

Lamar's inability to reconcile his own individual talent and achievement with the perpetual underdog status of his race is not a failure but an acknowledgment of a recalcitrant issue that may be the central obstacle to this country living up to its potential. Naming the problem, so they say, is always the first step toward solving it and maybe "new Kung Fu Kenny" (a new nickname for Lamar, based on a Don Cheadle character, that appears several times) will be the one to break us out of the patterns that are holding back progress. 

But FEAR. is the landmark track on the album, its middle section describing in chilling detail over a dozen ways he could have died as a teenager in Compton, a personal truth for Lamar that is far too easy to tie into headlines from across the country. Can we get past this moment, shake loose of the prejudice and hatred, without blowing everything up along the way? 

FUTURE: Father John Misty - Pure Comedy Although it's couched in an enhanced and very modern take on Laurel Canyon almost-soft-rock, Pure Comedy may be the most futuristic album of the year so far. In song after song, in the grand tradition of speculative fiction, FJM takes human foibles to their natural conclusion, imagining a world where global warming has destroyed civilization, virtual reality has sapped the will to live, or the political divide has made it almost impossible to share the planet. 

One example is Things It Would Have Been Good To Know before The Revolution, which comes off as a sequel to the Talking Heads' Life During Wartime. After the high-tension thrills David Byrne so vividly describes, what comes next? Society rebuilt on its ashes, where we are no longer at the top of the food chain and the idea of "eating on the run" takes on new meaning. Twenty Years From Now is also an explicit peek into a crystal ball, and only slightly clouded by jaundice. 

Even in the most personal song on the record, the epic Leaving L.A., FJM can't help envisioning Los Angeles after "the big one," or relate how he's "beginning to begin to see the end," of his own career, with the aura of impending doom goosed by Gavin Bryars' spine-tingling string arrangement. The involvement of this 80-year-old legend of 20th century classical music, best known for his piece memorializing the sinking of the Titanic, was a catalyst to connecting Pure Comedy to Dylan's Tempest. Also, the sheer volume of words FJM spills on some of these essays in song is probably only equaled by the Bard of Hibbing himself - or a great rapper like Kendrick Lamar. 

While his need to convey so many ideas occasionally finds FJM shoehorning words into the bar line of a song, stretching a rhyme scheme to the breaking point, or reaching for an easy pun, these shortcomings are more than balanced out by quotable lines in every track. One great example is on When The God Of Love Returns There Will Be Hell To Pay, where he goes back to the Bible to get old-school apocalyptic and turns one of the Four Horsemen's steeds into a mordant observer of current affairs: "And the pale horse looks a little sick/Says, "Jesus, you didn't leave a whole lot for me/If this isn't hell already then tell me what the hell is?"

Despite the bleak, sarcastic, even bitter observations of Pure Comedy, FJM's viewpoint isn't completely fatalistic. His optimism can be located somewhere between the twin poles of The Beatles'  "Love is all you need," and Randy Newman's Political Science, offering a few variations on the theme of "each other's all we got," first stating it the title track, or "It's a miracle to be alive," which comes in the last song. 

Lamar's view is also not universally dark. He finds time to tweak other rappers, ("sit down, be humble"), and indulge in some LUST., in a Princely falsetto yet, and even LOVE. in the pretty, Frank Ocean-influenced collaboration with R&B up-and-comer Zacari. Even if the sentiments in these two songs are complex and nuanced, the lush sonic backdrops are a respite in their own right. In the end, the hope in DAMN. stems from the sheer humanity baked into every track, which is impossible to imagine even the most stone-cold racist ignoring. "Ain't nobody praying for me," Lamar claims several times, but I would like to think he's wrong. Our future may depend on it.

As for Dylan, wandering the labyrinth of the past, I found the glow at the end of the tunnel to reside in second of two photographs by John Shearer included in the collection. The first is a Hollywood-style portrait that, even with the heavy use of chiaroscuro, can't help but reveal the thousand shocks that Dylan's face has been heir to after 75 years of living. But the second shows him dressed with casual swagger and leaning against a vintage convertible, which contains a gorgeous, provocatively dressed young woman. You could read many meanings into this picture, even something unsavory. She's young enough to be his daughter, for one thing - maybe she is his daughter, we have no idea. But you could also see it as a picture of a guy who still has plenty to live for. 

As long as the Never Ending Tour continues and our most recognized prophet is still on the road looking for another joint, I think we're going to be OK.

P.S. Keep an eye out for Best of 2017 (So Far) to see where these albums fall - or don't - on my list of favorites.

Best Of 2016: Hip Hop and R&B

My Top 20 for 2016 included Frank Ocean, Chance The Rapper, Anderson .Paak, and Kanye West, but there was a bunch of other stuff from similar realms that entertained and intrigued. It should be noted that I use the term "R&B" loosely - in my mind I often think of some of the selections below as "left field" or " alien" R&B, which post-Frank Ocean's Channel Orange is nearly a genre all its own.

In assembling the playlist for this post I noticed a lot of one-off singles and EP's. This could mean a big year in 2017 as some of these begin to pay off into albums. Nothing is certain, but I would not be surprised to see full albums from Missy Elliott, Pusha T, Moses Sumney, Young M.a, and FKA Twigs, all of which bodes well for our ears. 2017 will also see the wide release of Prodigy's (Mobb Deep) R.I.P. Series, which finds the Queens legend collaborating with associates old and new, including some of the biggest names in contemporary hip hop.

ALBUMS & EP's

Kendrick Lamar - Untitled Unmastered Lamar can do no wrong, even delivering burning verses on disposable top 40 songs (Maroon 5? Really, dude?). This collection of leftovers from the To Pimp A Butterfly sessions was remarkably nutritious, featuring expansive, lived-in grooves for Lamar to rhyme over. While it didn't hold together like the magnum opus of TPAB, it was still one of the best hip hop albums of the year. 

Kate Tempest - Let Them Eat Chaos Even if Tempest shades a little more toward spoken word on her second album, she still enthralls on this concept album about overlapping events at 4:18 AM on one particular street. She's got a large heart, which is always on the side of right, but has to check a tendency to preach. Production by Dan Carey is once again brilliant, although it calls more to contemplation than to the dance floor. 

Solange - A Seat At The Table Speaking of preaching, if this album had come out two years ago, before Trump exposed this country's slimy white underbelly, I would have thought it hopelessly out of date. But now it's messages of black pride and empowerment are a necessary corrective to the hateful rhetoric polluting our air. It helps that Solange is making the most assured music of her peripatetic career, using a deceptively light touch to deal with some heavy subjects. Unlike her sister and so many contemporaries she sounds like she's using her voice, an irresistible lighter-than-air soprano, to sing to you rather than at you. While it might lack that one killer tune, A Seat At The Table is great listen all the way through. 

Xenia Rubinos - Black Terry Cat Rubinos, a multi-instrumentalist singer-songwriter, covers some of the same ground as Solange, but in more in-your-face style. Shades of funk-rock icon Betty Davis and Philly Soul add historical weight to a seriously musical album. 

Ka - Honor Killed The Samurai I've been digging his noirish Superfly single all year but just learned about this full length. Call it a fan's notes on Jim Jarmusch's Ghost Dog: The Way Of The Samurai, as Ka constructs dark, hypnotic backings for his night thoughts about art and life. His career has been a slow burn since his days in Natural Ingredients, but this self-contained album should turn some heads. 

A Tribe Called Quest - We Got It From Here...Thank You 4 Your Service The rumors started right after Phife Dog, the heart & soul of the Tribe, died: there was a new album in the works, their first in 18 years. And it's remarkably good, with the  thoughtful lyrics and head-nodding beats that made their name back in the day. Q Tip shines throughout and you won't soon forget his haunting chorus on We The People, which puts you in the mind of a certain kind of Trump supporter: "All you black folk, you must go/All you Mexicans, you must to go/Muslims and gays/You know we hate your ways." It's hard to imagine a better tribute to Phife's legacy than this capstone album - rest in power. 

Danny Brown - Atrocity Exhibition I had pretty much given up on this squeaky voiced nutjob but he regained my interest by naming his latest album after a Joy Division song and a J.G. Ballard novel. Turns out by going more batshit crazy and black hole dark, he's finally put himself in a context I can get behind. There's variety to the beats, which are mostly excellent, and well-deployed guests (Lamar, again, and others), leavening his unique attack. Like The Life Of Pablo, you feel like you've entered into a slightly crazy person's head, although Brown's diagnosis is a bit different, leaning more towards the paranoid. Not for everyone, but he's on to something. 

Kaytranada - 99.9% Great showcase for the chill Haitian-born Canadian producer's tracks, with occasional guests providing vocals, either sung or rapped. Anderson .Paak is here, but even more notable is a verse by Phonte, whose excellent flow I discovered when reviewing a Little Brother album for Off Your Radar. Drummer Karriem Riggins and jazzers BadBadNotGood add some nice instrumental touches. 

Chloe X Halle - Sugar Symphony This five-song EP from YouTube sensations and Beyoncé protégés Chloe & Halle Bailey is an introduction to two fully-formed artists. They can both sing and rap beautifully and write memorable songs, and Chloe has a hand in the production of most of these songs. Drop is the featured song but Thunder may be the big tune Solange is looking for - perhaps Beyoncé can make the connection. The delicate electro-funk-pop on Sugar Symphony has a distinctly post-FKA Twigs flavor to it so here's hoping their first full-length doesn't get bogged down in "significance" like hers did. Tune in next year...

Moses Sumney - Lamentations Ever since he drifted onto my SoundCloud with Mid-City Island in 2012, I've been an avid follower. His multi-octave voice is a wonder and no one since Terry Callier has blended folk, jazz and soul with such confidence. This year's releases, which also included the Seeds single, show him incorporating more electronic sounds into the mix, even going full Justin Vernon in the overdubbed auto tune choir of Worth It. He's still one to watch - but keep a close eye because I have no idea where he's going next. 

Isaiah Rashad - The Sun's Tirade His last album, 2014's Cilvia Demo, was fantastic, with top shelf beats and autobiographical rhymes that were a cut above. Then the pressure was on, making the follow-up nearly as anticipated as Frank Ocean's. Unfortunately, this is not nearly as good but it is a fascinating exploration of writer's block, which may be a first in hip hop. I'm pulling for the guy so remember Free Lunch when assembling your New Year's Eve party mix. 

Various Artists - Sofie's SOS Tape Don't want to make your own mix? Stones Throw to the rescue with this seamless assemblage by Sofie Fatouretchi, one of the founders of the Boiler Room. Pulling together many of the threads found on other records reviewed here, Sofia also has her ear to the ground and showcases some up and comers like Stimulator Jones and ISSUE. She also makes beautiful music with Mndsgn on Abeja and features the stunning vocals of Charlotte Dos Santos on Watching You. Great to hear Jonwayne in there as well, even if it's just a short instrumental. Next time you get an SOS text from a shipwrecked party, deploy Sofie and there will be smooth sailing. 

SONGS & SINGLES 

Ever since my vacation in hip hop nation, it's been incontrovertible that Schoolboy Q's THat Part and Young M.a.'s Ooouuu were two of the songs of the year. The first is blessed with one of Kanye West's best features and a haunting, draggy beat. Unfortunately, Q doesn't have what it takes to sustain an album so his Blank Face LP is far from essential. Young M.a. is a witty and tough-talking highlight of the current crop of NYC MC's and if she keeps coming up with songs this sticky, her album will make itself.

When I wore my Mobb Deep shirt to the Kanye West show, it was a way to represent one of the giants of NYC hip hop. I was also closing the circle: Havoc, one half of the infamous Mobb, worked on The Life of Pablo, putting his gritty stamp on both Famous and Real Friends. He also found time to make an album with the Alchemist, one of the best producers out there. He's already worked on Mobb Deep albums as well as making Return of the Mac and Albert Einstein with Prodigy, the other half of Mobb Deep. I can't say that The Silent Partner is the equal of those two earlier opuses, but the first single, Maintain (Fuck How You Feel), was an excellent song with a classic feel that had me hoping for more. As for Prodigy, while I was excited that he was chosen to work on a project related to The Black Panther comic series rebooted by Ta-Nahisi Coates, the songs have been seriously underwhelming. Part of it is the production, putting Prodigy into EDM-like contexts that don't suit his attack, and part of it is that I don't think he really likes doing work to order. However, buried in his Untitled EP is a polished marble of a song called That's What G's Do. Produced by someone called Mimosa, it's a perfect opportunity for Prodigy to do what he does best, namely talk about himself and New York City in a flow that sounds like his life depends on every word.

I'm not going to lie: I know everyone is crazy for Run The Jewels but I like Killer Mike better as a solo act. It's not as if he's lost a step, it's just that now he's giving equal time to El P, a genius behind the boards but no so much on the mic. I've also been disappointed with DJ Shadow's output since 1996's Endtroducing, one of the best albums of the last century. But put'em all together on one track - Nobody Speak - and it's pretty killer, particularly during the vicious chorus.

Missy Elliott seemed poised for something big after her 2015 Super Bowl appearance but all we got was classic-sounding W.T.F. (Where They From) and the energetic Pep Rally, both of which kept her hand in but not much more. FKA Twigs also stayed on the map with Good To Love, a spare and gorgeous ballad. 

I also thought this was going to be a big year for Pusha T - his last album was subtitled The Prelude, after all - but all we got were a couple of tracks. Drug Dealers Anonymous finds him in fine form, spitting conscious rhymes like "America’s nightmare's in Flint/Children of a lesser God when your melanin’s got a tint." I only wish he had done two verses as Jay-Z doesn't have much to say in his bars. When Jonwayne has nothing to say, at least he's honest about it: "That's O.K., my mind's blank anyway," starts That's O.K., a single he released earlier this year. But the way he says it, you're immediately hooked. The beat is one of his best, too - melancholy and soulful.

One of the undeniable grooves of the year came from the mysterious A.K. Paul, whose Landcruisin' featured a sinewy guitar loop and wonderfully insouciant vocals. Thanks to DJ Duane Harriott, master of all that moves body and spirit, for the tip. Keep an eye out for more. 

Even catchier, although somewhat indefensible, was Joey Purp's Girls @, a scientifically designed earworm with each shouted "What" burrowing deeper in your brain. It's got a light enough touch that you can listen without hating yourself in the morning. Chance The Rapper's guest spot is also a redeeming factor - he even name drops Ta-Nahisi Coates. If you haven't yet read Between The World And Me, let this be your reminder - it's one of the landmark books of our time. 

Hear tracks from all of these artists in this playlist. This year, I'm also instituting genre-based "Of Note" playlists in addition to the general one so check out Of Note In 2016: Hip Hop & R&B - you may find something that strikes your fancy more than it struck mine. 

The Top 20 for 2016 is here and the year's best electronic music is coming next. 

Frank Ocean Goes Deep

It's profound. It's profane. It's a benediction. It's an indictment. It's intimate. It's universal. It's pop. It's art. It's soulful. It's icy. It's carnal. It's cerebral. It's wickedly funny. It's as serious as your life. Frank Ocean's Blonde (or Blond?) is all of these things, and more, and it's on the top of the charts. After a four year wait, which drove some corners of the Internet to the breaking point, we finally have a follow up to Channel Orange and it is brilliant, exceeding my expectations in every way. 

Part of the reason I love Blond is that it makes fewer concessions than Channel Orange to R&B, the genre to which it supposedly belongs. For one thing, half the songs have no drums, and on the ones that do, the percussion comes and goes. For another, guitars are the most prominent instrument - next to Oceans's glorious voice, of course. Ivy, for example, feels rich and fully realized despite just being voices accompanied by two tracks of heavily processed electric guitars. It works so well mainly due to the sophistication of Ocean's melodies, which combine with his poetic lyrics to make an intoxicating cocktail of a song. Then there's the end of the song, where he makes a hook out of a little vocal phrase that would seem bizarre if it didn't feel so good. 

The length of time between albums might imply a lack of confidence but much of Blonde is incredibly bold, including all of the different things he does with his voice. Considering that his gifts as a singer put him in the same league as Stevie Wonder (believe it), his lack of veneration for his instrument is refreshing. He pitches it up, distorts it, talks through parts of songs, and, in general, could care less about impressing you. This makes the moments when he lets rip, like the wordless passages in Solo, that much more astonishing. 

Lyrically, he's gotten bolder as well. Consider Skyline To, which kicks off like a Frank Loesser song ("This is joy, this is summer...") and then, as a reflective jazz guitar shimmers in the background, turns strikingly conversational. "That's a pretty fucking fast year flew by," he says, speaking plainly, "that's a pretty long third gear in this car, gliding on the Five, deer run across, killed the headlights," he continues in a stream of consciousness. He keeps talking: "Pretty fucking under moonlight, now, pretty fucking...sunrise in sight" - he sings the last word and we're back on Broadway - "then comes the morning hunting us with the beams, solstice ain't as far as it used to be, it begins to blur, we get older, summer's not as long as it used to be, every day counts like crazy." 

This is compressed language, heightened but completely relatable, and, in the context of a 2:37 pop song, amazing. Throw in subtexts about  sexual encounters and the effects of the drug trade on the Congo, and his achievement is  elevated from the pop realm into that of the literary. Synth clouds and squiggles float in, Ocean begins to harmonize with himself and heaven is not too strong a word for the sensation of listening. And this is just one song, picked almost at random. One day monographs and graduate essays will be written exploring the treasures of Blonde - for now, I'll just keep browsing Genius. 

Skyline To also continues some of the main themes of Blonde, the cut-adrift sensation of getting older, being on your own, answering only to yourself but desperate for connection, coping with work, self-worth and technology. "I may be younger, but I'll take care of you," he sings in Nikes, the opening cut (don't miss the video), a come-on to a one night stand whose glow lasts long in the lives of both people involved. The spoken word interludes also play off of these strains. Be Yourself is a voicemail from a friend's mom imploring her son not to drink or do drugs "unless under a doctor's control,"and signing off, unnecessarily: "This is mom. Call me." 

Facebook Story is an anecdote told by Sebastian, one of Blonde's producers, about a woman who left him after three years because he wouldn't accept her friend request. "I'm in front of you," he told her, "I don't need to accept you on Facebook." These snippets speak volumes about helicopter parenting and the perils of social media - issues that don't only weigh on millennials, I can assure you. Frank Ocean has straight up become the voice of more than one generation, all the while remaining an artist of great intimacy. 

A word about collaborations. Guests and samples can sink an album under the weight of misplaced star power or references that are too clever by half. No worries on Blonde - Ocean is in total command. Luminaries such as Beyoncé, Kendrick Lamar, Jonny Greenwood and Kim Burrell are here, along with a children's choir and samples of everyone from Gang of Four and Elliott Smith to The Beatles themselves. However, everything is beautifully woven into a distinctive tapestry that could belong to no one else. If any collaborator deserves to become better known based on Blonde, it would be Om'Mas Keith, who has songwriting and production credits on 11 songs on the album.

The one song where Ocean takes a backseat is Solo (Reprise), a full-on feature by Andre 3000 of OutKast, who speed-raps over a soulful piano and arty synths. Depending on my mood, I vacillate between joy that someone was able to get Three Stacks in front of a microphone to feeling like it's an intrusion. I've heard it's a two year old recording so I'll chalk up its inclusion to the diaristic structure of the album, which makes a palpable presence of all the living Ocean has done since Channel Orange came out.

Considering that Blonde is a vessel for four years of emotions and creativity, I hope everyone who snapped up this album invests their own time to let it unfold in their hearts. Blonde is an unconventional, deeply felt, and organically original work of art. There's much more I could say about its mysteries but I'd rather let you discover them on your own. And, Frank - feel free to take your time on the next record. A gem like Blonde is well worth the wait. 

Note: Two days before Blonde came out, Frank Ocean released a "visual album" called Endless that featured a soundtrack of all new music. It is only available to watch and listen to if you subscribe to Apple Music, a sub-par service that I tried several months ago. From what I understand, Endless was a clever move on Ocean's part to finish out his Def Jam contract and allow him to put out Blonde independently. That suggests that he saved the best music for Blonde and, based on what I've heard from tinny-sounding bootleg MP3's, that is indeed the case. If and when Endless is released in a conventional fashion I will be happy to give it full consideration in a future review.

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Kanye And The Converted

I don't make a habit of unfriending people for having contrary opinions. However, this resolve is not tested often as it just so happens that at least 90% of my social (media) circle is made up of left-leaning, pro-choice, anti-LGBTQ discrimination, pro-civil rights social justice warrior types. But there's one hot button issue where I feel like a minority in my own newsfeed: Kanye West. While I value my friends and acquaintances for other reasons, the unfortunate fact is that some of them have no problem parroting commonly held groupthink about Kanye, namely that he is no-talent, idiotic, egotistical jerk. While I can't necessarily defend his actions in some cases, I will speak up for the records as I have formed a deeply personal relationship with most of them.

Even so, I didn't realize I was feeling musically oppressed until I walked into the sleekly renovated halls of Madison Square Garden one recent evening and found myself surrounded by thousands of Kanye fans - and they were amped. There was an excited buzz and sense of camaraderie even among those on the hideously long lines for merch. A security guard noted my Mobb Deep t-shirt and I said "Yes - I thought I'd bring some New York flavor to the show." "You actually listen to this stuff?" he asked. "Hell, yes," I responded, "I've been listening to hip hop since the days of Grandmaster Flash & the Furious Five!" These are my people, I thought, and it felt good, even before I knew what the night held in store.

Let me rewind for a second. A week prior, I had no idea I was going to see Kanye. Tickets went on sale in the spring and just couldn't plan that far in advance, especially with all the college tours we knew were on the horizon. Also, I had already bought tickets for Dylan and Mavis Staples at Tanglewood and wasn't sure I had another big ticket concert in me, especially with the prospect of a bot-fighting refresh refresh REFRESH session on Ticketmaster. I heard the concerts sold out in seconds. My nephew had managed to secure a block of tickets for my sister's family - on three different nights in three different cities. I was glad to avoid that kind of drama. 

Then, the Friday before Labor Day, I got an email from Ticketmaster telling me new seats had been released. Feeling skeptical but spontaneous, I clicked the link - and saw row after row of seats at $226 per. Not happening. In a last ditch click, I re-sorted the list low to high and voila! Affordable seats! They were high up and described as "rear view" but having read the review of the opening night I didn't think that was important, with the moving stage and everything. After a quick consultation with my wife, I pulled the trigger on tickets for me and my daughter.

So that's how we found ourselves in the 413 section of the Blue Seats in MSG, watching the crowd assemble to a soundtrack of ambient, ominous sounds reminiscent of the darker moments from Fripp & Eno's Evening Star. Fog machines started up, adding to the sense of anticipation and mystery. There was a swirl of activity around us as people repeatedly took the wrong seats and then had to relocate when the actual ticketholders showed up. These transactions were all uniformly polite and good humored. There were no grievances in our little section of the venue - I've been to opera performances where the crowd was less well-behaved. Filling the arena was a slow process but it gave us an opportunity to observe the massive rig Kanye's crew had assembled around and over the floor. We watched as black clad technicians wearing harnesses took their places high in the rafters and contemplated what their nights were like, huddled at great heights near the roof of one arena or another.

Finally, at about 9:45 PM, the fog machines kicked into overdrive, the lights blacked out and the crowd went nuts. I could just barely make out the platform closest to us tilting backwards into a cloud of smoke. When it returned to level, Kanye was there and the excitement exploded as everyone jumped to their feet, cheering louder than ever. Father Stretch My Hands, Pt. 2 kicked in, Kanye began rhyming, and the entire crowd - about 20,000 people - matched him word for word. It would have been thrilling even if Kanye's platform hadn't began moving over the floor, illuminating the masses underneath as they writhed manically, dancing their asses off. Smartphones went up all around the arena, looking like beautiful constellations and giving the lie to all those artists who would ask you to check your device at the door of the show.

Smartphone Starfield

By the second song I realized the brilliance of Kanye's conception: he had made the crowd into the show. Considering how often the charge of egotism is lobbed at him, it was almost ironic how much the concert invited our participation and elevated the individuals in the audience, transforming us into full participants, especially those on the floor. On more than one occasion, Kanye even began a song again so the sing-along could kick off in unison and we could all be together.

Unlike his recent rambling and unfocused remarks at the VMA's, Kanye was in full command of his performance, barreling through songs in quick succession, dancing athletically in a fashion that did not seem overly choreographed while making full use of his tethered status on the platform. He only let up during the couple of moments when his platform would retreat to the end of the arena to allow for an enormous central platform to engage in a sort of ballet mecanique, twisting and turning this way and that, illuminating different sections of the audience with banks of spotlights. 

Kanye also pushed the limits of his constant near-accessibility by lying down on the platform and extending a hand to the gyrating masses. Even this gesture felt humble rather than magisterial and electrified the whole arena. About a two-thirds of the way through, Kanye also revealed that he wasn't alone after all, shouting out singer Tony Williams, who has provided hooks since West's first album, and bringing up the lights at the south end of the arena to reveal his band. I couldn't see what configuration he was using but it looked like more than just a DJ and a vocalist. The setup also included the usual giant screens, but instead of giving close-ups for those far from the action they displayed artfully distorted visions of what was taking place down below.

While the staging felt like the future, the setlist took judicious turns to Kanye's past, with killer takes on Can't Tell Me Nothing, Power, Heartless, Blood On The Leaves (a daring choice) and especially the mighty New Slaves and Jesus Walks. If any song in his catalog was meant to be sung by 20,000 people it was the latter - indeed, that may be the definitive way to experience this classic track. Naturally, there was a big helping of The Life of Pablo, whose scattershot songs ended up working great in concert, with the possible exception of Wolves, which was slightly stilted out of the studio. 

Kanye sequenced the show like a great mixtape, dropping in THat Part, the Schoolboy Q song-of-the-summer on which he has a feature, and ending with Ultralight Beam, Pablo's opening cut. As the over-the-top gospel stylings filled the arena in a way that was almost overwhelming, the fog grew in intensity and Kanye's platform parked itself at one end of the floor, tilting backwards in a mirror image of his arrival. Then the lights came up and he was gone. Kanye had left the building. 

Would I have stood for another song or two? Sure. But this was more memorable and as they used to say in vaudeville (and probably at Shakespeare's Globe or even the theaters of Ancient Greece): Always leave them wanting more. 

The glow of the night continues to echo in the days since, armoring me against my naysaying friends. I don't think I'll have any problem laughing it off the next time one of them gets apoplectic about something stupid Kanye said. I've been to the show and they can't tell me nothin'.

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